The circuit of the “loop” reminds me of roving around upon the rim of a very large and shallow spoon, tilted upward toward Mentone at the smaller end. San Bernardino is 1075 feet above the sea, and Mentone 1640 feet. At that point we have nearly climbed the foothills, and are very close to the great mountains themselves. As we skim around upon the upper side of the “loop,” the long gradual slope from the foot of the mountains to the stream at the centre of the valley seems an ideal conformation for leading the irrigation streams from the mountains along the rows of orange trees which will soon entirely cover this valley.
Four miles from San Bernardino is the station of Arrowhead, from which we have a near view of the peak of nature which gives the place its name. It is a bare, gravelly tract on the side of the mountain, which, in contrast with the chaparral about it, takes the shape of an Indian arrowhead with a portion of the shaft attached. Covering a large area, the arrowhead is a landmark for many miles around. I could not help thinking that if a gang of Italian laborers were employed for a few days sharpening the outline of the arrowhead by cutting away bushes along the edge, and setting out others judiciously in the converted background, the effect of this interesting natural phenomenon might be much brightened. There are hot-springs at Arrowhead, and a hotel renders the varied attractions of the place available.
While we are kiting along let me tell you what I know about baskets made by the Indian women of the Pacific Coast of now and long ago, the last considered valuable and now commanding high prices. There are several experts on this subject in Pasadena—Mrs. Lowe, ex-Mayor Lukens, Mrs. Jeanne C. Carr, and Mrs. Belle Jewett, who has the most precious collection of all.
Mrs. Lowe has gathered together for her Basement Museum, which any State would be proud to own, all that she could find of special interest relative to the Indians of California—clothing, headdress, weapons, medicine charms, money, beads, and of course many baskets, for baskets are as indispensable to the Indian as the reindeer to the Esquimau. They were used as cradles, caps for the head when carrying burdens, wardrobes for garments not in use, granaries on roof, sifters for pounded meal, for carrying water, and keeping it for use, for cooking, receptacles for money, plaques to gamble on, and so on. And the basket plays an important part in their legends and folk-lore.
Mrs. Lowe determined to preserve these specimens, as tourists were rapidly carrying away all they could find of such relics, and soon the State would be without proofs to tell how the Indian of the past lived and fed and fought, bought and sold, how he was dressed, and how he amused himself.
Mrs. Ellen B. Farr, an artist in Pasadena who is famous for her success in painting the pepper tree and the big yellow poppy, with its reddish orange line changing toward petal tips to pale lemon, has also devoted her skill to pictures of such baskets grouped effectually—baskets now scattered all over the world, each with its own history, its own individuality, and no duplicate, for no two baskets are ever exactly similar.
The true way to obtain these baskets is, go a-hunting for them, not buy them at stores. They are handed down for generations as heirlooms originally, never intended for sale, and with the needles used in weaving, made usually of a fine bone from a hawk’s wing, and the gambling dice, are the carefully concealed family treasures. But sometimes by going yourself to see the aged squaws, or paying one who is familiar with their ways to explore for you, you may get a rich return. Baskets are of all sizes, from the little beauties no bigger than a teacup, woven finely and adorned with beads and bits of dyed feathers, to the granaries, or the storage baskets, holding half a ton, nine feet and nine inches in circumference, three feet deep. Mrs. Jewett showed me a photograph of one of this sort, in which she sat comfortably seated with her six-foot son and his wife. This had been in use more than fifty years, and was as fine as ever. Her one hundred and twenty-eight baskets represent twenty-eight tribes. In regard to the shapes and designs, the women seem to have copied straight from nature’s patterns, as seen in acorns, pine cones, seed vessels, etc., so they are truly artists.
Figures of men are sometimes woven in: those with heads on represent the victorious warriors; those decapitated depict the braves vanquished by the fighters of their special tribe. An open palm is sometimes seen; this is an emblem of peace.
Willow wands and stiff long-stemmed grasses are gathered and dried for these baskets, then woven in coils and increased as they go on, as in a crochet stitch. It often requires a deal of coaxing and good pay to secure one of these highly prized “Coras.”
The women were as devoted to gambling as the men, and made flat trays for this purpose. The dice were eight acorn shells, or half-walnut shells, first daubed over inside with pitch, and then inlaid with little shells which represented money.
I saw a tray and dice purchased most adroitly from an excited gambling party, who were at the time too much intoxicated to know exactly what they were doing. After it had been paid for the owner was implored to sit down and gamble himself, hoping in this way to win more money and get back the board. It was hard to withstand their forcible appeals, but the man ran away, and was obliged to hide all night for fear of assault. Squaws would sometimes bet pieces of flesh from their arms when their money was gone, and many of them have been seen with rows of scars on their arms for this reason. No basket can be finished by an Indian woman until she has ceased to bear children. Then her work is done.
The Japanese are famous basket-makers, but they do not far excel the best work found among these untutored workwomen.
Most curious of all is the fact that a savant connected with the Smithsonian Institute was amazed when examining a “buck,” or man’s plaque, to find it almost exactly like one he had brought from northern India—similar in weaving, size, and shading.
And a lady told me that she could make herself understood by those of a certain tribe in Mexico by speaking to them in Sicilian. Which makes me think of Joel Chandler Harris and his embarrassment, after publishing his stories of “Uncle Remus,” to receive letters from learned men at home and abroad, inquiring how this legend that he had given was the same as one in India, or Egypt, or Siam.
The art of basketry is rapidly deteriorating, and will soon be lost unless Indian children in the reservation are taught something of the old skill by their grandmothers, before the few now living depart for that happy, unmolested hunting-ground they like to believe in, where I do hope they will find a land all their own.
The Mexican drawn-work is seen everywhere for sale, and at moderate prices—so moderate that any one is foolish to waste eyesight in imitating it. Each stitch has a name, and is full of meaning to the patient maker.
One can easily spend a good deal for curios, such as plaques, cups, vases, napkin-rings, plates and toothpicks of orange wood, bark pin-cushions, cat’s-eye pins, etchings of all the missions in India ink, wildflower, fern, and moss work, and, perhaps most popular of all, the pictures on orange wood of the burro, the poppy, and pepper and oranges. Or, if interested in natural history, you can secure a horned toad, a centipede, or a tarantula, alive or dead, and “set up.”
A horned toad is more easy to care for than the average baby alligator of Florida, and as a pet is not more exacting, as it can live six months without eating.
“Why do some women like horrible things for pets?
“Mother Eve set the example, and ever since serpents have been in the front rank of woman’s eccentric loves. Cleopatra was fond of tigers and ferocious beasts, but she turned at last to a snake as the most fitting creature to do her bidding.